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A totally Different Class….

There were lots of reasons why I couldn’t be at the Electric Picnic last night to see Pulp play live, but funnily enough, this morning, I can’t remember any of them. I’m sure the two kids under four ranked high in the list, followed swiftly by having to be in work this morning. Throw in the fact that I tend to only attend festivals that I can walk home from and there you have it. All perfectly sound, grown up reasons, but whatever, it’s too late now.

Because I hear they were amazing, and it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. I predicted it. I dreaded it. Because Pulp’s Different Class album has been my ‘Desert Island Disk’ for as long as I care to remember.

I’m looking at my original inlay card now. So dog –eared, faded & well thumbed that it’s hard to read the lyrics anymore. But I don’t need to, I know every, single song as well as if I’d written them myself. Which of course is ridiculous, because I’m not a song writer. But then these are not just songs. Each of the twelve tracks on this album are an individual work of divinely crafted story telling.

And I’m not even sure if the stories I read behind them are what Jarvis Cocker intended but that probably doesn’t matter. It certainly doesn’t matter to me anyway and it didn’t matter when I stumbled across the album back in 1995. I think I might have actually bought the album for my older brother for Christmas, truthfully, I think I’d stolen it back from him by New Years Eve.

I was in love.

Just gone twenty and a complete day-dreamer to boot, it was a match made in heaven. I’d heard the big tracks before, Common People, Disco 2000 but it was the lesser known ‘I Spy’ and ‘F.e.e.l.i.n.g.c.a.l.l.e.d.l.o.v.e’ that drove me insane with their angsty bitterness, choruses that screeched promises of revenge ;‘And every night I hone my plan, how I will get my satisfaction, how I will blow your paradise away’ and gritty, twisted relationships ‘But this isn’t chocolate boxes and roses, its dirtier than that, like some small animal that only comes out at night’


For reasons I’ll go into another time (maybe) it was the anthemic ‘Sorted for E’s & Whizz’ that I could identify with most ‘at four o’clock the normal world seems very, very, very far away’ and yes, I might have almost phoned my mother to say ‘Mother, I can never come home again, cos I seem to have left an important part of my brain somewhere ‘ in my case under a motorway bridge in Maynooth. But there you go, that feeling is universal I guess.

I won’t go into them all. But they all resonated, ‘Monday Morning’ and it’s aimlessness of middle-youth, ‘Bar Italia’ and the grim reality of ending up in some grotty cafe, hugging a tea to try and get some feeling back into your limbs wondering what exactly just happened. The beautiful ‘Something Changed’ the regretful ‘Underwear’, ok, ok I’ll stop.

So Jarvis, I’m sorry I missed you. I’m really sorry. But I’m glad you were good, and I’m glad that, despite the regret, everyone that saw you enjoyed it. Because you might come back.

And I’ll be there.

And I might even bring my baby.

Or not.

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Comments Off on Time to get Festival Fit…

Time to get Festival Fit…

As I write, this house is literally pulsating with the sound of Lionel Ritchie’s All Night Long…

No, we haven’t gone mad, this party pleaser is emanating from the nearby campsite at Punchestown, where 100,000 Oxegen-goers have started to gather…

Yes, for the second time this year, its Festival time at Punchestown, but the two events could not be further poles apart.

It all started when 34 year old Somerset Farmer Michael Eavis organised the first Glastonbury festival – with Marc Bolan headlining and free milk for every festival goer. Glastonbury was by no means the first or biggest rock festival to grace Britain’s fields, but it was arguably the event that kick-started the UK, and in turn, Ireland’s love affair with outdoor music extravaganzas.
I was too young to make it to Feile (the legendary Trip to Tipp) but the stories I hear mostly involve dodgy campsites, and even dodgier camper vans all set against a soundtrack of great Irish legends like Christy Moore, The Saw Doctors, and The Stunning.
It was to be some years later that festivals began again in earnest. Witness (now Oxegen) originated in Fairyhouse Racecourse but eventually moved to Punchestown in 2004 to replace ‘Creamfields’, a dance extravaganza.
And that’s when my love affair with festivals began…
Living practically in the shadow of the Punchestown Grandstand, we’d been to Creamfields, but by then, I was thankfully starting to tire of the dance culture – a girl’s got to grow up sometime, and Oxegen was a welcome release from bottled water and sweat-soaked tents.
The first year kicked off with a great line up, The Cure, Muse and The Darkness, and since then, its been rare that living next door to Oxegen hasn’t meant access to some fantastic bands. In 2006 being heavily pregnant didn’t mean I couldnt enjoy theChilli Peppers, though 50,000 over-enthusiastic moshers meant I had to make a premature escape from the Artic Monkeys. In 2007 we had Muse, and in 2008 Snow Patrol and REM.
In 2009, the memories are a bit blurry. My youngest child had been born in May, and by July, this Mammy badly needed a night out. As I said the details are sketchy but it did involve some contraband vodka, toppling over during the Killers and finally needing to be hosed off before I could present myself to my mother in law who was babysitting… I’d say it was a great night…
But then everyone has their festival moment. Of course I’m told I’m too old to go – but trust me, I’m by no means the oldest you’ll see wading through the mud, bravely clutching two pints and a burger. And yes, there probably are better festivals – only this year thanks to Alan Bennett and his blog http://www.wherethemoodtakesme.com/ I learned of several others that I wouldnt mind visiting but for now, well, this one is next door and no matter how wet, how weary, how (ahem) tired and emotional I get, my bed is never any further than 25 minutes from the main stage. Now, not even Kate Moss could say that!

Yes, I’ll be there again this year. Its not about the hardship, the rain, the portaloos, its about the memories, about the craic and the cameraderie. As Joni Mitchell wrote in her classic ballad ‘Woodstock’
‘And I feel to be a cog in something turning’
May I never be too old…
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Again, the last day…

The following short story has been selected for the Kildare Arts Project, ‘Stories for the Ear’, the launch of which takes place in the Riverbank Theatre, on Saturday 14th May.

“If I could just make a suggestion?” she says, trying to remain enthusiastic. It has been a long day and these clearance meetings were never any fun, especially not in the heat of the airless boardroom. But the other members of the audit team argue on, and not for the first time, she looks through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of their office in the International Financial Services Centre and wishes she could take a flying leap out into the sparkling waters of Dublin Bay that lie temptingly beyond.

She remembers with longing the cool airy offices of their Wall Street branch and groans inwardly at the thought of another day wasted on this assignment. Ironically, as she tentatively opens her mouth again, this time to suggest moving the meeting to a cooler office, she is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A man in blue overalls enters carrying a large portable fan. To an audible sigh of relief from the assembled group, he ambles to the corner of the room and plugs it in. Looking around she decides to take advantage of the temporary lull in the discussion.

“Ok guys, back to what I was saying, if I might run through my figures one more time,” she continues, “I think James is right, I think if we just reverse ……” her accent a strange mix of New York and something else, she launches into a clear explanation of what needs to be done, before anyone gets a chance to interrupt her again.

Putt-putt putt-putt, the fan stutters to life in the corner. For a moment she pauses. Almost at once she continues, her moment of hesitation and uncertainty barely noticed.

I hear it in the distance, as I wake, the putt- putt put- putt sound. The American Marines are on the move again.

Putt-putt putt-putt

She can feel a bead of sweat on her hairline and cannot believe that this is happening again.

All eyes are on her as she tries to work her way through the report in front of her. She thinks about gesturing to James to turn off the fan but she knows from old that it is too late. The damage has been done and once the beast has been woken, there is nowhere to hide.

It is early and dawn has only started to creep over the long grasses that mark the eastern boundary of the village. It is market day but we were told yesterday that the market has been cancelled this week because of the recent trouble with the troops. I do not care. Now I can spend my birthday playing in the hamlet with my brother Mi-minh instead of minding chickens at the busy stall. The early sunlight dances through the woven roof and I look over to where Mi-minh sleeps peacefully, his spidery black lashes flickering against his soft skin. He is only four, but I decide I will still play with him — even though I am now seven.

I look around the hut, Mama is gone already to bring the oxen to the water and, of course, Papa is not here. There are no men like Papa in the village any more, just us children, our mothers and grandparents.

After reaching to wake Mi-minh, I crawl out of my bed and look out towards the horizon. Against the crimson sky, like a giant black insect, a helicopter crawls overhead. A black silken head appears beside me, Mi-minh rubs his eyes. He is mesmerized by the helicopter, but then he is only four. They are nothing new when you are seven.

She takes another deep breath and continues to speak, her pitch a shade higher than usual, her usual measured tones racing slightly as she deftly sets out the solution to their problem.

Then I hear a different noise, a sharper tac tac tac followed by screams of “No VC! No VC!” The noises are coming from the northern end of the village. I pull Mi-minh close but he just looks up, his dark eyes not yet afraid. Tac tac tac tac tac. More screams, but closer. I see a plume of smoke rise up to the sky. They are burning the houses.

I run to wake Grandma and Grandpa but they are awake. Grandpa runs from our hut to see what is wrong. I see Mama run from the far end of the village pulling the lazy white oxen behind her, but as I watch, shots ring out and the oxen fall clumsily to the ground. Mama screams and starts to run. There is a sharp crack, then she falls too. I go to run to her but Grandma holds me back, her bony fingers stronger than I could have imagined

They start to round us up. Grandma, Mi-minh and I are hustled into a group on the green in the centre of the village. There is no sign of Grandpa. All around us the air is thick with smoke, as the thatched huts are lit one by one by the American soldiers. Gunfire crackles through the air and I put my hands over my brother’s ears and shield his eyes with my dress.

She knows now that they have noticed. Their looks have changed from admiration to puzzlement. She can feel the rivulets of sweat course down her forehead and fall from her chin down onto the manila folder in front of her. Panicking now, she looks at James, but even he, her closest colleague is now looking at her in bewildered concern, half standing in his chair, unsure of what to do. Stumbling from the table she runs for the door but realizes it’s too late, she can no longer see where it is. With a stifled cry she falls to the floor. Gripping her head tightly between her hands, she starts to moan and rock with grief as it plays, unstoppable, in her head.

The Americans are shouting at us now. Grandma says they must be looking for Viet Cong, but they will not find any, we hide none in our village. But they do not understand us any more than we understand them. We are under the guard of two of their soldiers while they search, but when they find nothing they become angrier. The one in charge starts to shout at the others and then turns to us. I can see the whites of his eyes, wild and enraged and he raises his gun. Starting at one end of our group he starts to shoot and we start to fall like the oxen. Mi-minh screams and breaks from my arms. He starts to run back towards our hut. The soldier turns and puts two bullets in his back. I scream and scream but I do not hear any sound, Grandma grabs me and puts me behind her and when the soldier turns to finish off our group, she falls on top of me, her lifeless body pinning me down.

She moans again and mutters and protests in a tongue that she has not used for many years now. No longer a middle-aged accountant, but that little girl of many moons ago and she tears and scratches at her head willing the images to go away.

Putt putt putt. How long I lie here I don’t know. I can only hear what happens next: the helicopters return with more soldiers, but now the gunfire stopping. The new soldiers are angry too, but with each other. I can hear them getting closer and I cannot take it any more. The scream that I have held inside me for so long reaches my lips and I cannot stop. I wail and scream and cry. I feel them move the body of my Grandmother from over me and I prepare for death.

But the soldier that looks at me is crying too and he lifts me gently from the tangle of corpses. He carries me to the helicopter where a handful of injured villagers crouch in terror. The noise of the machine is thunderous, so much more than the gentle putt-putt we have heard many times in the distance. The force of its giant blades whips my hair up into my eyes.

We start to rise into the sky and the last thing I can see are the two white oxen, crumpled and blood-spattered through the smoke and flames of the burning village of MyLai.

Now it is over. She is once more aware of her surroundings, of a strong pair of hands that clasp her tightly, binding her arms to her sides to stop their thrashing. She looks up, but for a moment, all she can see is the face of that American soldier, tears streaming from his blue eyes as he helps her to her feet.

Post traumatic stress disorder, they called it. It used to happen much more often but even now, despite the therapy, anything could set it off — a loud noise, the sight of a child’s coat strewn on the grass, a SKY News headline. Its sequence was the same every time. Every single time. And it would never change, the minute-by-minute rerun of that day.

Back in New York, her colleagues assumed that it was some kind of fit — epilepsy, they whispered to each other, and it had been a rumour she was happy to let circulate. Now it had happened here in Dublin, and from the horrified looks on the faces of her colleagues, she knew it would not take long now for the rumours to start again.

She straightens her shoulders and as slowly the soldier’s face fades, she sees that it is James that supports her, guiding her gently towards the door. But as she takes each shaky step across the floor, the smell of death still lingers in her nose and she can still taste the acrid smoke of gunfire on her tongue.

She should have been celebrating her seventh birthday, on March 16th 1968. Instead, she would always remember it as the last day of her life.

Background Note:

The My Lai massacre was committed by US soldiers against hundreds of unarmed Vietnamese civilians, mostly women and children on March 16th, 1968, during the Vietnam War. Photographs provoked a world outcry and the incident became an international scandal. As one of the worst US war crimes, it prompted widespread outrage and reduced public support for the war in the United States.

The platoon was led by Lt William Calley who was later court martialled for murder. A US army scout helicopter crew famously halted the massacre by landing between the army troops and the remaining Vietnamese. Its 24-year-old pilot confronted the leaders of the troop and threatened to open fire should the massacre continue. He was later awarded for his bravery.
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First attempt at Flash Fiction

this is my first foray into the world of flash fiction (a piece of fiction typically 1000 words or less). Hope you enjoy it…

The Tourist

On each side of the deserted motorway, the high banks blinkered her. Taking a deep breath, she swung up through the roundabout, and there it was.

The mist hung low over the early morning plains. Later the day would be warm and bright but for now, the watery sun could do nothing but add to the unreality of the dawn.

Pulling onto the grass verge, she flung open her car door and filled her lungs with the cold, damp air, her eyes wildly, greedily drinking in the sight before her. In every direction the Curragh rolled flat, green, familiar, already dotted with the sight of early morning strings of horses. She glanced at her watch. She’d better hurry, he mightn’t wait.

***

He’d wait alright, even though he wasn’t sure she’d turn up. It was a strange one, young Elaine ringing him up like that.

He lit another cigarette and sighed. He’d thought for a long time about who to give her, nothing too green, whilst knowing only too well that she wouldn’t be pawned off with any old dud.

Taking another drag from his cigarette he chuckled, just when he thought things were getting dull….

***

‘Oh Charlie, it’s been so long!’

‘Too long, love, too long,’

‘I can’t believe it. Isn’t this unbelievable?’

‘Don’t have to tell me.’

He looked at her curiously. She hadn’t changed much. Fancy highlights, and maybe not as whippet-thin as before, but still the same sparkling eyes and jaunty look.

‘Just promise me you won’t get yourself killed. Because if you do, I’m warning you, I’ll be throwing your body in the nearest furze and making like I never saw you!’

‘Oh stop, I’m nervous enough! Come on, let’s unload them.’

The horses backed down nosily from the box, their feet scrabbling to keep balance on the ramp. The chestnut filly looked warily at Elaine as she approached.

‘Oh Charlie, she’s perfect!’

‘See what you think by the end of the Old Vic,’ he answered gruffly, secretly pleased with her approval.

But she wasn’t listening, her face buried in the fillies neck.

‘Right so, have you got your gear?’ Charlie was anxious to get this over with.

‘Yes, took a while to find, mind you.’

‘Hope you brought gloves.’ He looked pointedly at her long fingernails and she blushed.

‘Yes boss.’

‘Ok, one, two HUP!’

Once up, the filly skittered sideways from beneath her, but Elaine just laughed and automatically began the process of tightening the girths and adjusting her stirrups.

‘You be careful now, no messing, keep her nice and steady.’ Charlie called after her, but she was gone, her eyes already on the mouth of the gallop, tracing its course off into the distance.

The filly too had seen where they were going, and was by now bouncing and skipping on the spot. Elaine had remembered some tricks though and managed to keep her in check until her hooves were safely on the brink of the chippings track.

Then in three huge, bounding strides they were off.

‘Shit!’ she gasped, her reins in muddle, ‘easy girl, easy!’

Through her gloves she felt three nails snap with the strain of holding the horse back, but she didn’t care. This was it. The power, the surge…

The filly started to steady but Elaine was ready for her now.

‘Right ho lady, let’s see what you can do.’ She slipped her reins an inch and let the horse have two clips on her flank with her whip, but there was no need, they were off.

The gear change was instantaneous, the wind by now whipping the tears from her eyes as she crouched further forward. She could see two other riders ahead and as she steamed past them she called, ‘Sorry lads, can’t hold her!’

‘Stop bleedin’ hittin’ her then!’ one of them shouted back, but the filly was long gone. Every muscle strained, foam spilling back from her mouth onto her neck, her hooves barely clipping the all-weather surface. With every stride the ground flashed beneath them but Elaine was in another place, another time. Crouched so low that the chestnut mane stung her cheeks, she urged her on and on like someone possessed.

And then they were nearing the end. Just as she worried about how she was going to pull her up, the poor filly started to slow in long, grateful strides, her slick sides heaving. Elaine tried to catch her breath.

It took five minutes for Charlie to gambol up alongside them.

‘Sorry Cha, she got away from me,’ Elaine called over her shoulder, afraid to look at him.

‘I could see that,’ he answered drily, ‘good job she was due a work out. You ok?’

She nodded, but he knew she wasn’t.

‘So when are you off then?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she answered.

‘Oh,’ he nodded, ‘China did you say?’

‘No Charlie, Hong Kong.’

‘Oh, same thing isn’t it?’

She had to laugh, thinking that to Charlie and all the lads she used to work with, it might as well be ‘all the same’. Just as the Curragh might well be a different country to all the people she worked with now.

‘How long are you going for?’

She shrugged.

‘But you’ll be back won’t you?’

There was silence, so he continued,

‘Right. We’re taking it easy on the way back, I mean it now, stay upsides of me, no monkey business!’

‘I will, I promise – and Charlie – thanks, thanks a million for this.’

‘Ah sure don’t I owe you, after getting me out of a hole with the Revenue that time. Who’d have thought, our little Elaine, an accountant in China!’ he laughed.

Elaine stayed three strides behind as they cantered slowly home, tears streaming down her cheeks again, only this time, they weren’t caused by the wind.
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Comments Off on Change is coming …

Change is coming …

All the talk of the upcoming visit to Ireland of American President Barack Obama reminded me of this piece I wrote on the day of his inauguration…..

He came home this evening to find me on the kitchen floor. On my knees. Surrounded by the usual mish-mash of baby changing paraphernalia – sudocreme, wipes, tiny nappies and, ahem, masking tape.
SKY News was blaring on the TV, the spuds were boiling over on the hob and there was the distinct smell of overcooked fish emanating from the oven.
‘Eh – hi honey I’m home’ he ventured, the tentative tone to his voice giving away his unease at the sight of his obviously grumpy, pregnant wife on her knees, immersed in chaos.
‘Don’t even start’ I spat.
‘Oh, right. Where is she?’
‘Where is she? Where is she? Well I’ll tell you where she isn’t! She isn’t here tending to her responsibilities like she should be.’ I brandished a half dressed baby doll by one leg, nappy half masking-taped to her bottom.
He nodded with a pathetic attempt at understanding and turned away, but I could see his shoulders start to shake with poorly disguised mirth.
He’d seen this coming and he was right. It was all my own fault.
As a mother of a two year old with another on the way, I had decided it would be a great idea if Santa brought a baby doll, complete with nappies, bottles and a soother.
All in the way of preparation for the new arrival.
And in my defense, it was a huge success. To be really honest, the exact level of success far exceeded both my expectations and my wishes.
Baby Millie was changed and fed to a routine that would put the most militant of nannies to shame. And to be fair, for those first three hours on Christmas morning, my enthusiasm surprised even myself. I supplied cheap wipes, an empty tub of sudocreme, an empty tub of talc, all in the name of education and preparation. I may even have shed a hormone induced tear as the brand new Mammy rocked her plastic newborn with the words, ‘Go to sleep my liddle baby’.
I was thrilled of course at her dedication to the project and thought it boded very well for the prospective welcome of the new sibling.
Then, things started to slide slowly out of control.
Due to my over exuberance on the paraphernalia front, baby Millie needed a changing bag. No problem. Mammy had a spare one. Great.
Then empty tubs no longer sufficed. ‘She needs reeel cream!’ was the wail.
Then every time Baby Millie left the house over the course of the Christmas holidays, her little pink nappy bag had to be packed. Bottles, wipes, nappies…
Her buggy had to go in the car; her car seat had to be strapped in…
‘But it’s a doll!’ He groaned one day as I ran back into the house to grab Baby Millie’s soother.
‘Not to her,’ I hissed.
By New Year, reality had sunk in. Not only was Daughter No1 being groomed for the new arrival, but so was Mammy. Instead of enjoying my last few tiny-baby-free months, I had given birth ‘prematurely’ to a plastic nightmare.
Sweet, pink, innocent Baby Millie had shot me squarely in the foot. And it hurt.
Not only could I now remember only too well the chaos a new baby brings, I was also starting to feel the exhausted pain and weariness of a modern ‘granny-before-her-time’, left holding the baby of her teenage daughter, at a time when she should be ‘finished with all that palaver’.
Only this daughter wasn’t heading out to party with her friends. No, this one was abandoning nappy changes mid way through to resume a jigsaw, the words ‘You do it’ carelessly thrown over one shoulder being the only, ominous, similarity.
Of course Himself thinks it’s hilarious.
Well, the laugh will be on the other side of his face when I tell him Baby Millie needs a new buggy. After all, you can’t expect the child to push that flimsy plastic-rubbish down our potholed driveway. Heavens, no, she’ll definitely need one of those all-terrain jobs, maybe with three wheels, and suspension – I mean, it would be practical.

Yes change is coming to our house. But change can be good. Ask Barack. I just love that man. Yes, I know I supported Hilary in the early days, but even I know now that she wouldn’t have brought the same wave of hope, of revolution, of thanks.
It helps that he’s easy on the eye. It even helps that he smokes – ah sure you’d need him to have some bit of boldness about him. Oh, Mister President…
So today was the inauguration. I know she’s only two, but I decided the day was too historic to let slide. Dragging her onto my knee I explained that the man on the screen was going to save us all, that he was a great man, that he was the first black American President.
And then it suddenly occurred to me that his colour would mean nothing to her. That she was possibly belonging to the first generation for whom colour actually made no difference. After all, several of Barney’s little gang of friends were of various races and no comment had been passed yet.
So abandoning the history lesson lest I create an issue where none existed, I instead spent a half an hour teaching her to chant with her little fist in the air ‘Yes We Can!’ and sure she loved that. Great Stuff. And then it was time to change Baby Millie again and that was when Daddy walked in.

Finally getting off the floor, Baby Millie, changed and safely hidden behind the sofa for the evening, I called the child prodigy to come and show Daddy her new trick.
‘Who was the man on the TV Belle?’
‘Ehmmm,’ she thought for a minute.
‘Come on Isabelle, What was the nice man’s name,’ I asked sweetly, whilst silently sending the telepathetic message of a pushy parent We’ve practiced this, don’t let me down!
Obaba!’ she cried gleefully, the strange scarey look in Mammy’s eyes having the desired effect.
‘And what does Obama say?’ I encouraged with relief.
And with that, she raised her little index finger in the air and with all the strength, belief and determination demonstrated by the great man himself she pointed straight at Daddy;
‘Yes You Will!!’

Yes, sometimes we have to embrace change; I thought as I turned to guiltily retrieve Baby Millie from behind the couch, after all, she was probably due a feed…